Monday, October 1, 2012

why not ask for wings in the fury of sunrise

“From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things, and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all.”

~ Emerson

This is what sunrise looks like from the suburbs. Obscured by too-tall houses.  At this time of year, we wake up into the dark and wait, and yes, we will rise from our breakfast at the kitchen table, and see what colours the day begins with.  Sometimes, pinks and soft oranges, other days, fire, fury. 

The Fury Of Sunrises

by Anne Sexton
as black as your eyelid,
poketricks of stars,
the yellow mouth,
the smell of a stranger,
dawn coming up,
dark blue,
no stars,
the smell of a love,
warmer now
as authentic as soap,
wave after wave
of lightness
and the birds in their chains
going mad with throat noises,
the birds in their tracks
yelling into their cheeks like clowns,
lighter, lighter,
the stars gone,
the trees appearing in their green hoods,
the house appearing across the way,
the road and its sad macadam,
the rock walls losing their cotton,
lighter, lighter,
letting the dog out and seeing
fog lift by her legs,
a gauze dance,
lighter, lighter,
yellow, blue at the tops of trees,
more God, more God everywhere,
lighter, lighter,
more world everywhere,
sheets bent back for people,
the strange heads of love
and breakfast,
that sacrament,
lighter, yellower,
like the yolk of eggs,
the flies gathering at the windowpane,
the dog inside whining for good
and the day commencing,
not to die, not to die,
as in the last day breaking,
a final day digesting itself,
lighter, lighter,
the endless colors,
the same old trees stepping toward me,
the rock unpacking its crevices,
breakfast like a dream
and the whole day to live through,
steadfast, deep, interior.
After the death,
after the black of black,
the lightness, -
not to die, not to die -
that God begot.

{the reading is quite amazing, if you have time}

These are the neighbours flowers - they grow taller than the fence.

"We are always limited to what we ask for (so why
      not ask for wings). Therefore, desire becomes a flight
      marker. For surely we hover over what we have done
      as though we have wings — looking for signs that will
      tell us where to go, and if we have gone somewhere,
      what it means."

~ Primus St. John, from his poem, "Like van Gogh, I can't begin in Prose."

{So why not ask for wings, today?}

{You, too, are all light...}


  1. Yesterday's post and now another today so full that the heart and mind cannot fully take it all in...that is how I feel as I read your blog. There is so very much that I must come back to this and ponder more. I want to share it. I want to keep it. Shawna, you offer such glorious gifts and so often! I am blessed and so thankful I found your site. Quite by accident it was. Or maybe not. I like to believe I was meant to.

    1. I like to believe this also : ) thank you ever so much for this, Edna - completely uplifting and heartening to read.


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